The Fat Chancer 1, Celine Dion 0

I don't like opening ceremonies. I find them a bit too, well, ceremonial. And anyway, word before the Winter Olympics knees-up last night suggested Celine Dion would be in action.

I should point out that I am in Vancouver and Whistler (not at the same time) for the Winter love-fest. This was a concern beforehand as I pictured missing three weeks of training because of the thick snowdrifts outside my door. I really should get out more. The good news for me, if not the Olympic movement, is there has been no snow.

Anyway, so it was the opening ceremony. I didn't have a ticket. I didn't want one anyway. I have been to two such ceremonies. The first was at the 2006 World Cup and was a brief display of briefs as an assortment of dancers wearing flouncy skirts were lifted above Paula Wanchope - that is a ceremony, by the way, not a News of the World exclusive.

The second was the closing ceremony of the Beijing Olympics. It was pretty awful. All ceremonies these days are big on drums. And there were lots. The drum solo died out in popular music some time in the late 1970s. I think it was punk that did it. But the Olympics love them, albeit they are not so much solos as political rallies with a rhythm section of several thousand conceptual artistes.

In Beijing they had Boris Johnson, Leona Lewis and Jimmy Page. Boris waved a flag, Leona was attached to some strange contraption that made her rise into the China night sky, a bit like Windy Miller used to do at the start of Camberwick Green. And then there was Jimmy, guitar hero and rock legend, standing on a bit of green velvet and roped off like an exhibit at the Ideal Home Show, standing on the top of a double-decker bus. What was he thinking?

Another thing about opening ceremonies? Why the secrecy? The thing is sold out. You don't need to kid anyone into thinking Celine Dion is not appearing. If Rolf Harris is doing the Royal Variety Show then the Queen damn well wants to know about it. No-one wants surprising by a hirsute hero with a didgeridoo. But it's all needlessly top secret.  

Anyway, in absence of the opening ceremony, I went running in Vancouver. In fact I think Vancouver might be the greatest running city of all. There is a brilliant run down the waterfront and then around Stanley Park, complete with lighthouses, sea views, totem poles and a mermaid. Inspired by this and the knowledge that London is barely two months away, I have got motivated.

My shin splint (suspected) has gone. My calf problem is manageable. My right knee is killing me. That's life I guess. But tonight I ran the furthest I have managed in my life. Yes. If I was an athlete I would call it a PB. My last half-marathon was in 1993, but I never went above race distance. So I have to admit to being as bit chuffed that I managed 15 miles in mainly driving rain tonight and still got back to see KD Lang on the box. To cap it all off, Celine must have been and gone.

I did the half marathon part in 1 hour 50 minutes, which I know is pedestrian by your standards, but it's gold-medal form for the Fat Chancer. For the first time, I have started to think that I may actually finish the marathon. And so, in keeping with ceremonial etiquette, I would like to say a few thankyous - to Martin Yelling (my help), my new Saucony trainers (blue), my (now lucky and always ironic) Speedy Gonzalez t-shirt, the Wedding Present's Goerge Best album and Billy Bragg's Workers'Playtime (on the ipod), and Vancouver. Oh, and McDonald's for the post-run party (solo - everybody else was at the opening ceremony).